


Kind of Trouble

by hello_imasalesman



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: M/M, No main story spoilers, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 07:26:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5197382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_imasalesman/pseuds/hello_imasalesman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I haven’t had my quota filled yet to go back to mayoral duties. Besides,” Hancock's teeth nearly glow in the dark. “You’re my kind of trouble.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kind of Trouble

**KIND OF TROUBLE,** fallout 4  
Hancock/ Sole Survivor  
**Warnings:** drug use, I’m still feeling characters out so maybe some OOC, no main story spoilers

The Sole Survivor doesn’t remember the long Latin name the docs called it, only that him and his squad mates called it Psycho because it made you fucking mental on the field. Just one quick jab of a needle and the horses were off to the races after they kicked you square in the teeth. It made you sweat in thirty degrees below, made you shake and laugh, made your pulse sing in your ears. Ride of the Valkyries drowning out your pal falling red and dead next to you in the snow. 

The medic just explains it as Vietnam’s weed, but better and government approved. And yeah, it is better, Beethoven’s 5th blasting in his head as he arm wrestles some tech monkey back in the mess hall and accidentally breaks the man’s wrist. It’s a shit war and he hates the cold and now he wishes he graduated from college but—this makes him feel good, the psycho keeps him warm and treats him just fine, and it follows him home snapping like a starved dog, all the way to Boston. 

It’s not that Sole is surprised that there are a lot of drugs in the post-war wasteland, but he is surprised how open people are in general about it. There are still some judgmental people, of course. But it’s mostly for the sloppy ones. The addicts. He’s not an addict. He could, can, function on psycho. (He still got sober for Nora, for Shawn. )

Hancock isn’t an addict, either. He’s a mayor and he shoots good, shoots like a soldier. (Everyone out here shoots like a soldier.) He’s not bad at humping it, either. He does hate scavenging. Hancock hates scavving. Picking up old broken shit doesn’t help people out. He doesn’t see much use in junk, but he tags along with Survivor anyway, makes little quips that slowly and surely drive him up the wall: “Is there even any use for that?”

“Hancock,” Sole glances up, crouched on the floor with an old chipped vase in his hands. (Reminds him of something Nora found once in a store, that they passed up to get formula instead.) “We’re not that far from Goodneighbor. You could just… head back.”

“When we just started?” The ghoul snorts, prodding something dusty over on the floor with the toe of his boot, “I haven’t had my quota filled yet to go back to mayoral duties. Besides,” His teeth nearly glow in the dark. “You’re my kind of trouble.”

Sole watches him, tilts his head. “Then quit complaining.” He says, standing, his shoulder clipping Hancock’s as he heads for the door. He respects Hancock, respects the hell out of him, but he’s not afraid of him. He thinks the ghoul likes that. 

Scavving keeps his hands and mind busy, keeps him moving, makes him money. Needs enough caps to buy some decent lead-lined suit so he can head out into the Glowing Sea. (Needs it faster than he can scavange.) He combs through everything, tries to find the most expensive, the most nostalgic. Hancock acts like he’s disgusted by what amounts to trash, but when he sees Survivor wincing under the weight, he offers to hold a few things. They pass things from one knapsack to the other. Hancock is always careful not to touch Survivor’s hand, his wedding band glinting in the low light.

When night falls they find the perfect spot above the Hardware store, an abandoned campout with a bedroll. They settle in and eat cold canned beans side by side on the sleeping bag, and hope the raiders or the super mutants don’t spot them on the rooftops. Hancock slyly pushes what looks like asthma medication across the bedroll, another red inhaler in his own hand.

“After dinner fun, on me.”

Sole twists the small thing in his hands. “The fuck is this?” The label is worn, rubbed off; clearly repackaged.

“It’s jet.” Hancock says, plaintive. “What, you haven’t seen jet yet?”

He shakes his own and Sole mimics his actions, unsure. Hancock’s brow raises in amusement.  
“It’s, ah—just some recreational fun.” He continues, “Jet’s good. Usually I go for a little after dinner mentats mint, but I thought this was more called for. We ain’t playing chess or anything.”

Sole nods, thoughtful. He leans back against the building, his legs spread wide, turning the canister over in his hand. “What kind of high is it?”

Hancock smiles appreciatively. He had thought—they hadn’t expressly talked, yet, but Sole never said boo against his small gifts of med-x or his own groaning for a jet fix before. “Fast. God, it’s good. It’s a fuckin’ rush, everything slows down, you’re the fastest man alive.”

“Sounds like my kind of shit.” Sole grunts, shaking his a bit more. They exchange glances. Hancock’s lipless mouth twists into a smirk, and he graciously goes first, making a show of lifting the device up to his lips. They fit around the mouthpiece, and pushing the nozzle, he breathes, hold it in.

Sole doesn’t wait for him to exhale before taking his own hit. He hugs his lips around the dirty plastic and pushes down just as he inhales. He holds it in, but not half as long as Hancock; he finds himself letting out an involuntary “oh, _yeah_ ” as it hits him, much faster than he ever expected, all the air being sucked out of his throat into the dryness of the irradiated outside. Exhale tasting how Brahmin shit smelled on his tongue. His hands are shaking; the crescendo swells, along with his brain. Instant, abrupt, little finesse.

His eyes swivel to Hancock sitting across from him. His first inhaler is empty at his side, and he’s prepping another one. His hands are moving too slow.

“I want another one.” Sole says, automatic, eyes fixated on that bright red in Hancock’s hands.

Hancock growls in the back of his throat. “A second one would stop your tender little heart.” His hands have suddenly picked up speed, moving too fast, but his voice is slow now; he can hear every consonant, the way the growl rattles in his throat. Sole shivers and it turns into a full body shudder, his spine stiff and his lower back jerking.

“I can—handle it.”

“No you can’t. Take it from a ghoul.” He says, without much conviction. He hasn’t been a ghoul that long. Most of his tolerance is probably from use, anyway, not the irradiated scrambling of his genetic makeup.

Sole doesn’t know that, of course, doesn’t know how long Hancock’s been rotted on the outside and in, doesn’t know ghouls need triple the dosage just to feel it to begin with. (Doesn’t know anything, he’s so lost in the world, he’s getting radiation sickness all the time, he feels like shit all the time.) But he frowns and twitches. He watches Hancock’s mouth hug the inhaler and his chest expand underneath that tatty costume barely holding itself together on his body. Everything is so slow he can just watch the details of his face, his cheek muscles flexing as his lips move, the slow slide of his eyelids closing as he times his breath and sucks in just as the jet shoots forward.

And then he’s leaning in. The world and time itself seems caught in a treacle and when did Hancock open his eyes? They’re just slits, barely opened, but he can’t focus on anything but his dark eyes, pupils blown, taking over the entirety of his eye.

He could have stopped him. He doesn’t. He doesn’t want to, knows what’s happening. (He’s not dumb.) But when those barely there lips touch his, he gasps into his mouth. He’s not sure what he expected a ghoul to feel like. Slimy, maybe, like how snakes are supposed to feel. (Maybe he is dumb.) Hancock’s mouth feels dry and worn and so hot against his, like the rolling sand hills of a desert post nuclear blast. He gasps, into his mouth, and Hancock exhales and Sole sucks in that second-hand high, feels the music crash down around his ears. It is a symphony, a cacophony, and then– Chopin’s waltz, slow, slow, the notes falling, the droplets making indents in the dusty ground. The world is too slow and too fast as Hancock strays just a second too long, before pulling back.

Air comes in fast, and cold, bereft of the warmth of another. Hancock is suddenly at the far end of the bedroll. Sole coughs a hacking cough, his lungs constricting, and Hancock rattles out a laugh. “There,” The ghoul wheezes, sits back, and then lies back, his hat cushioning his head as he finds himself lazing off the bedroll entirely. “That’s your second hit.”

Sole wheezes and licks the inside of his mouth and the back of his teeth clean of the plasticky residue. Swears he can taste something different, something else. (Even though the kiss was more chaste than an middle school sock hop, wonders what a ghoul’s mouth tastes like.) He lies back himself, watches a crow fly in slow motion above his head. Keeps licking his teeth long after the taste has gone to the tune of Chopin playing in his ears.

“My kind of trouble.” Sole repeats. He bites down on his tongue and he tastes blood. It’s been a long while since he’s wanted psycho this bad.

**Author's Note:**

> Short one shot because I'm in fallout ghoul fucker hell!! Please let me know if Hancock is IC this is new territory for me and I would super duper appreciate it. Thanks for reading.


End file.
